Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant--
And Tuesday, in the market-place,
Intends, to every saint and sinner in't,
To state what _he_ calls Ireland's Case;
Meaning thereby the case of _his_ shop,-
Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop,
And all those other grades seraphic,
That make men's souls their special traffic,
Tho' caring not a pin _which_ way
The erratic souls go, so they _pay_.--
Just as some roguish country nurse,
Who takes a foundling babe to suckle,
First pops the payment in her purse,
Then leaves poor dear to--suck its knuckle:
Even so these reverend rigmaroles
Pocket the money--starve the souls.
Murtagh, however, in his glory,
Will tell, next week, a different story;
Will make out all these men of barter,
As each a saint, a downright martyr,
Brought to the _stake_--i.e. a _beef_ one,
Of all their martyrdoms the chief one;
Tho' try them even at this, they'll bear it,
If tender and washt down with claret.
Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions.
Your saintly, _next_ to great and high 'uns--
(A Viscount, be he what he may,
Would cut a Saint out any day,)
Has just announced a godly rout,
Where Murtagh's to be first brought out,
And shown in his tame, _week-day_ state:--
"Prayers, half-past seven, tea at eight."
Even so the circular missive orders--
Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders.
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